Green Card #2

My new fiance wanted to drive to Las Vegas and get married right away.

“Tonight?!” I was taken aback. “I can’t! I have another job and I have to be there in–” I looked at my watch. “–an hour.”

“What time you finish?” he asked.

“Twelve o’clock.”

“Okay,” he said. “I come for you then.”

“But I have to be back at work at the Mayflower at 6 a.m.,” I said.

“My visa is run out,” said Christos. “I must marry now.”

“I guess I could call in sick tomorrow morning…”

“Good. I come for you tonight.”

I went back to my room, made the call and then showered and changed into my black uniform in a daze. At Langer’s Deli, I told an older waitress, Dee, about my strange bargain.

“Are you crazy?!” Dee blurted. “You don’t know him! You’re going to ride off to Las Vegas with a man you just met today?! He could be a mass murderer!”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“You’re right,” I said, shaking my head. “What was I thinking!”

“You have to tell him you changed your mind, LaVonne,” said Dee.

“I will,” I said. “As soon as he gets here.”

A few hours later, I steeled myself as Christos walked in and sat in a booth. I sat across from him and began to apologize, but he didn’t let me finish.

“You don’t want to marry now?”

“Well, no–”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know you–”

“LaVonne,” he said with a patient shake of his head, as though he were reassuring a frightened child, “I don’t kill you.”

Well, it was incredibly stupid, but I went with him. If you’d looked into those eyes at that moment, you might have gone too.

Christos insisted on driving my green Datsun so I could sleep through the night. I was very tired and didn’t argue, just lowered my seat and tried to get comfortable. The directions he had been given led us down a little used highway that was very dark. I remember waking from time to time thinking, ‘Well, if he’s going to kill me, this would be a good place for it.’ Then I’d drift off again.

As dawn came up, I opened my eyes and saw Christos smiling down at me, then back at the road.

“Good morning!” he was wide awake and cheerful.

“Morning,” I yawned, raising my seat to look around. We were on a two-lane highway in the middle of a pink and lavender desert, speeding toward a sparkling city in the distance.

“Las Vegas!” Christos pointed happily. He opened his window and lit a cigarette.

I looked at the speedometer. It said 100. I coughed.

“Um, do you think you could slow down a little?” I shouted over the wind.

“Is okay,” said Christos. “Is Nevada — no speed limit!”

“I know,” I said, “but I don’t think my car can take it.” The Datsun was vibrating wildly.

“No problem,” he shouted, and pushed his foot down harder on the gas pedal. The speedometer rose perilously close to 120, but the vibration stopped. “See?”

“Oh boy,” I murmured. This was not in the plan.

Suddenly, Christos hit the brake, sending me lurching toward the dashboard. We were in the city now, so he was slowing to a stately 50 mph. Morning traffic was beginning to fill the streets. We came to a stop sign, but Christos didn’t stop. Cars honked their horns.

“Uh,” I said, “that was a stop sign. You were supposed to stop.”

He didn’t reply, but made a screeching left turn in front of oncoming traffic at a green light, but the sign said, “No left turn.”

The Datsun’s tires squealed. More horns honked as I raised my arms in front of my face, expecting to die. The full horror dawned on me: Christos couldn’t read English. The signs meant nothing to him.

Then it happened again. And again. It was like a hilarious movie chase scene, except I was too petrified to laugh. I tried to explain what the signs were saying, but Christos laughed at me.

“‘The sign say, the sign say’,” he mocked. “I don’t care what the sign say!”

I could see we were having our first culture shock. Greece is famous for its wild drivers, I recalled. Now I was seeing one first hand. Finally, I did the only thing I could think of. I lowered my seat again, so I wouldn’t have to see my death coming.

“Do you know where we’re supposed to go?” I asked.

“I look for Greek church,” he said. “They will help.”

“Don’t we just need to find City Hall?”

“First, we need money for license,” he said.

“Money?!” My alarm bells were finally going off. “You don’t have money for the license?”

“No.”

I thought of the tip money in my purse, but I didn’t volunteer this information. I had no intention of paying for the wedding.

“Ah!” said Christos, who pulled up in front of a small store named Papadopoulos Market. “Wait here.”

He went inside and after a few minutes came out, speaking Greek with a man who peered into the car at me with interest. They spoke at length, and finally the man pulled out a roll of money, peeled off several bills and handed them to Christos.

“Do you know him?” I asked when he got back in the car.

“No. Greeks help each other wherever we are.” He started the car.

“He just gave you some money because you’re a Greek.”

“I pay him back.”

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